


kiss me in the doorway

by colonellaurens



Series: you're an open book but i can't read you [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), You Have Been Warned, i just thought of it, i've been thinking about the book carry on can you tell, idk where in the series this takes place but it's before pidge finds her family, keith's pov, some weird thing they have going on idk, they miss earth, they're mostly just soft with each other, this is written in the first person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 07:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16888101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonellaurens/pseuds/colonellaurens
Summary: I can’t help the smile that seeps through the mask of nonchalance I hide behind. There are cracks in it, always. But he knows how to get between those cracks, make it break away completely. I don’t mind. I hold my arms open so he can join me on the bed. He sits, and I hug him to my chest. He’s sitting between my legs, but there’s nothing sexual about it. (Though I wouldn’t mind if it were. It wouldn’t be the first time.)





	kiss me in the doorway

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys. it's finals week and im stressed. tumblr is banning horny people so i wrote this completely self-indulgent thing with that in mind. probably. idk. i was definitely inspired by my surroundings (it's been raining more than usual). i'd also like to mention that this was initially supposed to be only a couple hundred words of just pure fluff, but that did not happen at all. i hope you guys enjoy whatever this is that i made with my own two hands  
> (also, i promise im working on my ongoing fic. i'll be on break soon so i'll have more time! i'm thinking about other AUs too so if you like rainbow rowell's carry on, stick around for a real treat)

He walks up to me with a dopey grin on his face. I know he’s there, but I wait for a few moments to take it all in. The warmth. The affection. All of it. I can feel his gaze on me. I let him look. I think I like it when he looks at me. A moment later I turn away from the window, away from the rain outside, and I see he’s holding two steaming mugs. He presses one into my hands. I smell it before I see it; it’s a mug of hot cocoa topped with whipped cream and marshmallows. He sprinkled some cinnamon and chocolate shavings on top. It makes me smile. At this point, he knows how I like my hot cocoa. And it warms my heart.

I look back up at him and I can see that he’s clutching his own mug and looking at me with an expression that makes my heart clench with adoration.

(I love him.)

(I don’t know how we got here.)

(But I don’t mind.)

(He likes this better than fighting.)

I can’t help the smile that seeps through the mask of nonchalance I hide behind. There are cracks in it, always. But he knows how to get between those cracks, make it break away completely. I don’t mind. I hold my arms open so he can join me on the bed. He sits, and I hug him to my chest. He’s sitting between my legs, but there’s nothing sexual about it. (Though I wouldn’t mind if it were. It wouldn’t be the first time.)

It’s sweet. He slides down my chest and rests his head against it. He’s listening to my heartbeat. (He does that sometimes. He does it most when he thinks I’m sleeping. I let him.) I rest my chin on the top of his head, smell the shampoo he must have gotten at the space mall. (He loves that place. It’s adorable how excited he gets.) It smells strangely similar to sunflowers and the ocean, which I would never put together, but it works. He makes everything work. But I’d never say that out loud.

I can feel the tension seeping out of my shoulders. He’s rubbing soothing little circles into my thigh. It’s such a simple gesture, but it feels so, so nice. I feel like I’m falling. Or maybe I’ve been falling for a while and I just noticed. I find that I don’t mind. The mask is gone anyways, thrown into the vacuum of space.

“Keith,” my name rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be there.

“Hmm?” I respond. I bring the mug to my lips and take a careful sip. It’s good. Really good.

I’m looking at him now, but he’s looking outside. The Castle of Lions landed on a recently liberated planet somewhere near Olkarion earlier today, and it’s raining. It’s strangely reminiscent of home. It’s not storming, but the rain is audibly pitter-pattering against the castle. We’re next to something that looks eerily similar to the suburbs back on Earth, like something out of _The Truman Show._ It’s weird, but...if I stare for long enough, it looks almost like we’re on Earth. But the trees are different. The bark is white on most of them, the leaves are red. Coran said the chlorophyll evolved differently on this planet, which make the leaves look red to us. But I think he said some weird Altean color before that. He said it looks most like red to our “primitive little Earthling eyes.” I know it’s something I’m missing out on, but I’m not too mad about it. Not when Lance is curled against my chest, watching the rain.

It looks like he’s frowning, but I can’t really tell from here.

“Do you think we’ll ever make it back home?”

It makes me pause. I set the mug aside on my bedside table. My eyes slide back to the view of the planet outside. If I pretend, I can almost believe that the leaves on the trees are just in autumn, getting ready to leave for the winter. Almost.

I miss Earth. Who wouldn’t? We’ve seen a lot of planets, but none of them even compare to the atmosphere, the blue skies, fluffy clouds, deep canyons, rushing rivers. Blue seas. Gently rolling waves.

Or that’s what I imagine, anyways. I’ve never actually been to the beach. I had no reason to, anyways. At the time, it didn’t matter. I think the ocean is what Lance misses the most.

I purse my lips, staring hard at the trees outside. At the puddles forming from the rain — which is actually _water_ and not some bastardized version of it. I watch the rain fall, but I don’t really see it.

“I hope so, Lance,” is what I decide on.

He shifts in my arms and I see him set his mug down next to mine. He sits up a bit, just enough to look back at me. There’s a lock of his perfect hair sticking up, and I give into the overwhelming desire to smooth it back down. My hand trails down to his cheek and I take a moment to look at him. He looks a little sad — there’s a bit of mistiness in his eyes — but he also looks hopeful. I latch onto that.

“We’ll get there. Eventually.”

He sighs and sags into my hand. He’s looking down at my chest now, a knot forming between his brows. I want to smooth it out.

“What if the Galra get there before us?”

There’s a tear forming in his eye. I swipe it away with my thumb as it falls. He’s trying not to cry. It makes him look constipated.

“Then we’ll just have to save Earth.” I try to give him a reassuring smile. I’m really not sure what we’d do if Earth were under attack. It’s not like freeing some alien species. It’s saving _our own._ I guess the idea of failure is crushing. I can only imagine how Allura and Coran must feel knowing their people are no more. I can’t imagine a universe without an Earth. All my friends (are they my friends? They must be) have families back on Earth. Pidge might not have found her brother and her father yet, but her mother is still on Earth. (She’ll find them. I know she will.) Hunk mentioned his mom teaching him how to cook. _But waiting’s the best part. It’s the time we get to spend together._ I never thought about it like that.

Lance must really miss his family. I think he mentioned he had a big family, once. I wonder what that’s like. I’ve only ever had my dad and...Shiro, who I guess is kind of like a brother. I wonder...what it would be like to meet Lance’s family. I wonder what his sister’s like, how his mom’s cooking is. (He mentions it sometimes. When he’s complaining about the food goo.) He once came to my room in the middle of the night and asked if he could sleep in my bed. He said it was too quiet and that Pidge’s headphones were dead. (I said yes. I always say yes. I don’t know when that began.)

He looks at me like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen. His gaze is grateful, relieved, and something else. I don’t want to call it love. Not yet. I don’t even know if he loves me. He shifts again and his eyes are darting all across my face. He’s fully facing me now; I nervously lick my lips. I see his eyes follow the movement.

“You’re right,” he says. “We’re the goddamn defenders of the universe!” I can see his face light up. There are no more tears behind his blue eyes. I smile.

“You’re damn right we are,” I say. At some point, his hands ended up on me; one on my cheek and one in my hair. I don’t know when that happened. I don’t mind it as much as I should.

He’s looking at me with a softer smile then. We fall into a comfortable silence and his blunt nails scratch at my scalp. My eyes flutter closed for an instant and I hum contentedly without realizing it. It feels nice. Nicer than it should. Lance turns me into goo. I can’t find it in me to be mad at that.

My hand finds its way into his hair — it’s soft. Very soft. My other hand settles on his waist. I wonder when we got this close. I used to think he hated my guts. Then one day, _this._ I can’t remember when it happened. God, we don’t even call each other _boyfriends._ This is just...a thing. This is a thing we do. Things get heated every now and then and that’s usually how it is — we blow off steam in the middle of the night or when we have leisure time, and we’re both happy with it. Probably. This is new. I still don’t know what we are. Friends? Partners? Friends-with-benefits? I open my eyes and he’s looking at me tenderly. I can feel my face flush. The bastard has the nerve to smile. (He has no idea how he makes me feel. Or maybe he does. I don’t know.)

Then he’s leaning forward, pulling me in. I let him, or maybe I swoon, because I’m weak like that. I can’t say no. I don’t want to say no. I let him guide my face towards his; I feel his breath on my face. My eyes close again and I tilt my head. His lips touch mine and the grip my hand has on his waist tightens a bit. Firm. Like his hands against my head. Grounding. The kiss is sweet, soft. Much softer than most kisses he’s given me. It’s...nice. But a different sort of nice. The kind that makes you feel like little bees are buzzing in your chest and like you’re laying on a cloud.

At this point, he’s basically on my lap. Not that I mind. I definitely don’t. I feel him sigh and then there’s a swipe of tongue prodding gently against my lips. I tilt my head a bit more and let him in. He pulls my hair. (It drives me crazy when he does that, and I think he knows it. The smug asshole.) I feel the heat rise up my neck and shoot down between my legs. I’m weak for this too, apparently.

He kisses me like it’s the end of the world. My hands slide under his shirt — just gently sliding along his back. I hear him hum and he arches his back. It’s been interesting to find what he likes. He likes when my hands slide down his back to grab his ass. I do that. He lets out a noise that he probably tried to hide. I pretend not to notice, but internally I’m smug. His fingers card through my hair and I pull back, just to look at him. We’re both breathing fast. His lips are plump from kissing. He’s giving me bedroom eyes. I feel my heart hammering away in my chest. Maybe he feels it too.

Then I dive back in. I kiss his neck and he tilts his head for me. (He likes this too.) I bite, nip, suck — he doesn’t care right now. And neither do I. I’m at the collar of his shirt now and I nip at his collarbone in a way that I know will make him shudder. The rain is still pattering against the window. Pitter-patter. Clink clink. Little droplets.

He pushes me away just long enough to tug his shirt over his head. He bites his bottom lip. Words aren’t needed. I bring a hand over his front, teasing gently over one of his nipples. (He’s sensitive there. He likes gentle touches about as much as he likes rough touches.) The mound of flesh hardens; I kiss my way down. He grips my shirt. My skin is hot where he touches me. I push him down to his back, and he lets me. His hands are behind my neck and he’s pulling me back into another one of his desperate kisses that I return in kind. My hands never stop wandering. His skin is beautiful, I find myself thinking, and it’s soft. He’s toned. His chest has neatly defined muscles that I run my fingers over, and his stomach is taut. He’s skinny. All pointy edges. I thumb over his hipbone. It’s well-defined. He pulls my hair again.

Then he’s reaching for the hem of my shirt, pulling it up. I take the hint and sit back to take my shirt off. I make a show of it. Why not, right? He does that all the time. Then I take a moment to look down at him. His arms are by his sides and he’s looking up at me with a hunger in his eyes. The bulge in his sweatpants is undeniable. I have a leg between his. I lean back down to kiss him and “accidentally” grind against him. He ruts up into my thigh, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t incredibly hot. I bite his bottom lip. (He likes that too.)

Lance is pulling at my own sweatpants, grabbing my ass, pulling me closer. I know what he’s doing. And it’s just going to make a mess. I pull back. He’s looking at me with those blue eyes. He pouts.

“Keeeith…” he whines. It makes me bite the inside of my cheek.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. I palm the bulge in his pants and it makes his Adam’s apple bob. (I kiss that too.) We’ve done this before. I know what he wants. I know what he likes. I’ll gladly give it to him.

I’m sliding off the bed before he has a chance to say anything. He sits up, like he forgot what comes next. I’m standing over him. There are angry marks already on his neck. _Good,_ I think. Nonsensical. (Blame the horny brain. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.)

Except I _do_ know what I’m doing. Lance swings his legs off the side of the bed and moves to get up, but I’m quick to coax him back down. I settle between his legs, lean down to kiss him. I kiss down his neck, his chest, his stomach, until his breath hitches and he finally catches wind of what I’m doing. For a second I pull back. I look up at him. My fingers are dancing around the waistband of his sweats. He nods. I’m on my knees and he pulls his sweats down himself.

He’s undeniably hard under his underwear. (So am I, but this isn’t about me.) I touch it gently, testing the waters. His hands grip the sheets. I see the muscles in his abdomen clench. His breath is shaky. It makes me feel _heat._

“God, _Keith,”_ he says like it’s the end of the world if he doesn’t get off _now_. (Everything’s the end of the world with him. He’s so dramatic.)

My eyes meet his. His eyes are hooded with arousal and I can see the desperation. It fills me with an inexplicable _hunger._ I tug at his underwear and he gladly obliges. Now he’s fully naked and I’m still half clothed. It’s a little hot, admittedly.

I take him loosely in my hand and I see the reaction instantly. He throws his head back and lets out a breathy moan that definitely does not make my insides twist pleasantly. I bring my hand up to the head, thumb over the sensitive slit, just how he likes. He cries out and cards a hand through my hair. He looks down at me, and for a second I just hold him in my hand, gently stroking. (He mostly likes it fast and rough. But I want this to last forever.)

I lean down and make a big show of licking his dick from base to tip and I instantly feel the hand in my hair tighten. He’s pulling my hair again. I’ll go bald at this rate. I lick over the tip and lap away the bead of precum gathering there. Salty. But it tastes like Lance. I give him a few lazy strokes and I look back up at him. He looks like he’s about to die. He’s biting his bottom lip like it’s his only lifeline and his other hand runs through the front of his own hair. He’s watching me.

Then, without warning, I lean back down and take as much of him into my mouth as I can. He lets out a strangled cry, like he wasn’t expecting it (but he should really know better by now). I sink down as much as I can without gagging, flattening my tongue to make room for him. What my mouth can’t reach I touch with my hand. I take a moment to breathe, like he usually does when it’s _him_ going down on _me._ Then I sink down some more and I gag with purpose. There’s tears in my eyes, but I don’t care. I know my limits by now. The noise he makes is enough for it to be worth it. His hand is in my hair like it’s his only lifeline, but he’s not pushing. He’s just holding my head there. My nostrils flare as it gets difficult to breathe, but it feels like it’s harder for Lance to breathe. His other hand makes its way to my hair. I feel him tilt my head up slightly. I look up at him, all eyes.

He says my name like it’s the only word in the world. I can feel him squirm. He says my name again and it sends a spark of arousal and utter _heat_ between my legs that I’m quick to push aside. This isn’t about me. It’s about _Lance._ I feel his thighs are trembling beneath one of my hands, like it’s all he can do to stop himself from bucking into my mouth.

(I would let him. I know I would.)

(I kind of hope he does.)

I wink at him as best as I can from this angle and slowly, agonizingly pull up and sink back down. It starts like that, slow. But then he (and I) get impatient and I start moving in the way I know he likes — a twist of the hand, a bob of my head. Again. And again. Until I’m picking up a pace that he once called “relentless.” His hand is pulling at my hair, keeping it away from my face, vaguely guiding me. He’s talkative. He babbles things that I don’t even think _he_ registers. I think it’s a garbled version of my name. He’s not even trying to be quiet with his moaning and babbling and guttural noises. (Hopefully no one hears. The team doesn’t exactly _know_ about this...thing. But I don’t think any of them are in their rooms.) He’s a mess. We both are. There’s spit everywhere and I’m sure my cheeks are flushed and it’s a little hard to breathe properly, and _fuck,_ that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Lance is coming apart at the seams.

He wants. I give.

And give.

Until his thighs tense up and the hand in my hair _pulls_ and his hips start stuttering — and I don’t stop. I don’t stop until he’s crying out with the back of his hand against his lips, until the hand in my hair keeps me in one place, until he thrusts once, twice, three times, and he’s spilling down my throat. I let him.

(It should probably make my stomach curl with disgust.)

(It doesn’t.)

The hand in my hair relaxes and I don’t pull off his cock ( _God_ , that’s such a nasty word) until he’s blindly groping at my face, pulling me up to kiss him.

(That should probably be gross, too.)

I kiss him in kind. His lips are cold. He’s clumsy after he comes. He pulls me back onto the bed and I scoot until I’m laying on my back and he rests his head against my chest. He’s still breathing fast. His hands don’t stop moving; they’re all over me. (Not that I mind. Because I really don’t.) He fumbles with the drawstring of my sweats and my arousal comes back tenfold. More than that, even. Fuck.

His hand slips down into my pants, under my space-underwear — his hand is hot; I inhale sharply without meaning to. He glances up at me, a question in his eyes. I answer by pushing my pants down (and he helps). (It’s like that with us. I never really know what to say. He caught on pretty quickly for someone who never shuts up. He knows how to read me. Words are secondary.)

Then I’m naked on the bed next to him and I hear the way he sighs as one of his legs settle between mine. He’s always had a thing for touch. I might too. I bet he knows that. The bastard.

He touches me again and my eyes dart to the door. Oh god, what if someone walked in on us? What would they think? I’m mostly hard with Lance touching me (it feels like a relief) and we’re both naked on my bed. The curtains are open and the clouds outside have parted just enough to let the light of the setting sun through. It bathes Lance in a warm glow, lighting up his skin like he’s a saint. It’s impossible to know what someone would think if they opened the door and saw us like this. I don’t want to find out.

“Don’t worry, babe. I locked it on my way in.”

His voice is soft. I look up at him. _He called me babe._  The light from the window graces him with something like a halo behind his head. He looks sleepy and he has this silly grin on his face. He’s looking at me tenderly. With a fondness that I probably don’t deserve. Words escape me. Relief comes in their place. I nod for him to continue. I try not to think about the word  _babe._ It probably meant nothing.

He’s gentle and slow, just like how I was with him. It makes my heart clench. (I can’t tell if it’s good or bad.) It’s almost painful. It feels like I don’t deserve it. He proves me wrong with a twist of his wrist. (That’s how little it takes for him to change my mind. I’m wrapped around his finger.) He twists his wrist like that again and it makes me gasp. He’s kissing my neck, too. I feel him bite and tighten his grip at the same time and a hand (my free hand, since the other one is around Lance’s shoulders) flies up to my mouth. I bite back a moan. _Fuck._ That felt really good. He knows what I like too. I’m glad I don’t have to tell him. I would _literally_ rather die.

He picks up the pace and I’m breathing hard into my hand. _This_ is what I’m used to. We usually don’t have the luxury of a lot of time alone. It’s either the middle of the night or between training and mealtime and leisure. Having a lot of time is nice, I decide.

“Lance...!” is all I can manage, and my voice is absolutely _wrecked._

It doesn’t take too long for him to get me off. He’s good at this. Since the first time, he’s been good at this. I _definitely_ don’t mind. I don’t mind when I’m spilling over his hand and my own chest and — the sheets probably. Whatever. I’ll wash them tomorrow. I’m laying there, breathing hard as he works the last bit of orgasm out of me. I can’t really form coherent thoughts. It’s not until my breathing slows and I come down from my high that I realize — everything’s a mess. I find my shirt on the ground and I pick it up to wipe up most of the mess we made until it’s at least bearable. I throw it halfheartedly in the general direction of the dirty clothes bin, but it falls a few feet short. I don’t care. Lance lets out a snort of laughter.

I look up at him. My limbs feel like jelly. I dimly think about the not-so-hot cocoa left abandoned on my nightstand. But it’s just a passing thought. I can’t help the way I smile at him. He pulls the covers over us and settles back down. We’re laying on our sides, face to face. He’s looking at me, eyes darting back and forth. His eye catches on a spot on my right cheek. There’s a dip in my skin there. He reaches up and smooths his thumb over the old scar.

I smile. “I got punched in the face when I was younger.” I don’t know why I’m smiling. It hurt like hell when it happened and the bruise lasted for _weeks._ It was not one of my best moments.

He smiles back. “Of course you did,” he says, fondness seeping through his voice. His cheeks are raised and his eyes crinkle around the edges. He’s looking at me with... _something_ in his eyes. I don’t dare to call it love. It probably isn’t.

Probably.

I huff and he chuckles. He scoots closer to me. One of his hands find mine and he intertwines our fingers. I squeeze. He turns over so he’s on his back and I don’t hesitate to rest my head against his chest. I’m curled against him. I stopped complaining about the cuddling a long time ago. He made me at least _try it,_ to spend the night with him. I don’t hesitate anymore.

His hand runs through my hair, gently untangling spots where his fingers get caught. He kisses the crown of my head. He’s just... _like that._ He’s better at expressing with touch than he is with words. He talks a lot, but it doesn’t even compare to this. _This_ is much better. I can hear his heart beating behind his sternum. I trace little patterns in his skin. He’s insanely ticklish. I learned that the hard way.

When we’re like this, it feels like I’m home. The room is dimly lit with something that looks like fairy lights (Lance got them for me from the space mall) and the last of the sunlight is setting over the horizon. The cocoa he made is cold, but we don’t complain. I find that I don’t entirely mind if we never make it back to Earth. I look at the remaining warmth of the sun on Lance’s content face, and it feels like I’m already there.

 

(I think I like this better than fighting, too.)


End file.
